


No One Could Save Me But You

by EveryDarkCorner



Series: SladeRobin Week 2018 [7]
Category: Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018), DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Child Abuse, Child Murder, Concussions, Gotham by Gaslight - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 13:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Thirty children have been found dead, and Dick is certain Slade Wilson is the culprit.  Unfortunately, Bruce wants proof.





	No One Could Save Me But You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SladeRobin Week Day 7, with the prompt 'Gotham by Gaslight'. I can't believe it's over! Thanks everyone who's written/read/commented this year -- it's been great fun!
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta Mana, who helped me frantically panic-edit this fic last night after just finishing it on time. You're an angel, hon! <3

Dick stared out over the bustling factory floor, and reminded himself not to punch its owner in his smug bastard face.

               Leaning on the rail with one elbow, Slade Wilson gave Dick a thin, hard smile. ‘What exactly is Mr Wayne’s interest in my business?’

               ‘Investment.’  Dick didn’t look up.  ‘Mr Wayne’s looking to invest in promising ventures.’

               ‘How flattering.’  Slade leaned closer, teeth baring in a sharp smile.  ‘And he even sent a friendly face to speak with me.’

               Dick ignored him. Below, a girl—no older than he’d been when Bruce adopted him—ran her hands across a thundering machine, pulling switches and yanking levers with an expression of furious concentration.

               Children.

               They were all children.

               Dick’s gaze flicked from one dirty face to another.  ‘Do you employ any adults?’

               ‘For the book-keeping,’ Slade said, shameless. ‘Children are better on the machines. Their hands are smaller.’

               Clenching his teeth, Dick swallowed.  ‘I guess they come cheaper, too.’

               He finally looked up, meeting Slade’s single eye, which narrowed.

               ‘No one in my factory is underpaid.’

               Dick grunted.  ‘Mind if I talk to them?’  He forced a smile.  ‘You understand, of course, Mr Wayne can’t possibly invest in an unsavoury business. And he likes children.’

               Slade snorted.  ‘I’ve heard he’s fond of street rats, yes.’

               On the rail, Dick’s hand closed into a fist, heat balling in his chest.

               Slade’s eye widened in mocking surprise.  ‘Of course ... that was how he found you, wasn’t it?’  He smirked.  ‘Haven’t you scrubbed up well?’

 _Do not punch him.  Do_ not _punch him._

               ‘Good day, Mr Wilson.’  Dick gave a stiff nod, turned on his heel and headed down the metal stairs to the factory floor.  He ignored Slade’s soft laughter behind him.

               Bruce would never invest in a place like this.  Dick knew it—had known it before he even stepped in the door.  It didn’t matter.  He wasn’t here about investment.

               The first killing was reported a month ago.

               A child, already stiff with rigor mortis, was dumped outside the opera house on a busy Saturday night.  There were probably deaths beforehand, but nobody cared about _street rats_ going missing.  Bruce had been working double-time ever since, both as concerned entrepreneur Bruce Wayne, and as terrifying night-stalker Batman.  Just convincing the police to pay attention was a full-time job.

               It was a week and a half before they realised—at least one child was going missing _every night_.  Sometimes more than one.

               Over thirty dead children so far.  And who knew how many more, before that boy outside the opera house?  Post mortems found the children’s blood coagulated into a sticky, greenish mess; their hearts burst open as if from beating too hard.  And their faces ...

               Dick tried not to think of their faces.  Twisted in screams of terror.  Mouths open too wide.  Eyes dark circles of fear.

               They died afraid.

               Reaching the factory floor, Dick picked out a boy who seemed to have just finished up a task on his machine; picking up a brush, the boy swept metal filings into a bin under his desk.

               ‘Good morning.’  Dick offered his hand.

               The boy stared at it warily, then finally put down his brush and shook.  ‘Morning, Mister.  Is you a new manager or summing?’

               ‘No, I’m here to inspect Mr Wilson’s business.’

               ‘You ain’t gonna shut us down, are ya?’  The boy’s eyes widened in genuine terror.

               Dick shook his head.  ‘You like working here?’

               ‘Sure.’  The boy shrugged.  ‘Better than selling papers out in the snow.  Did that before.’

               ‘You get paid enough?’

               ‘Sure.’  Another shrug.

 _Evasive,_ Dick thought automatically.  But he pressed on—he needed to ask the important question.  ‘You heard about those kids disappearing off the street?’

               ‘Hell yeah.’  The boy shuddered.  ‘One of the newsies from my old paper was got.  S’why I came here.’

               Dick raised his eyebrows.  ‘You feel safer here, then?’

               The boy glanced up and down the factory floor, as if there could be eavesdroppers somewhere amongst the roaring machinery.  ‘You don’t know nothing, do ya, Mister?’  He lifted his chin.  ‘All this time, no kid working for Mr Wilson’s been got.  Not a single one.’  He glanced up, then turned sharply back to his machine.  ‘I gotta get back to work, Mister.  See you around.’

               Following the direction of the boy’s glance, Dick looked up at the railing overheard, and found Slade staring down at him, single eye hard.

 _Suspicious,_ Dick thought.  _Suspicious as hell._

 

* * *

 

Dick didn’t remember his own kidnapping that well.

               He’d heard the stories about children being snatched back then, because who hadn’t?  But he was also cold, and hungry, and the stolen bread in his pocket needed to be shared out before he could eat it.  Slipping down a shortcut between buildings seemed like a good idea.

               Until someone grabbed him.

               As Dick walked from Slade’s factory back to Wayne Manor, he rubbed his temple, filing again through the scraps of memory from that night.  It was before he ever met Bruce.  Long before.  A year?  Maybe more?

               He slipped through the gates of Wayne Manor and up the drive, lost in thought.  He barely noticed heading through the front door, working on automatic.

A warm hand touched Dick’s shoulder, and he jumped—

               ‘Apologies, Master Dick.  I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

               Dick let out a breath.  ‘That’s all right, Alfred.’  He shrugged his coat off, letting Alfred take it over his arm.

               ‘Lost in thought, sir?’

               ‘I guess so.  Where’s Bruce?’

               Alfred rolled his eyes behind his tidy little glasses.  ‘In the library, researching his latest, ah, _philanthropy project_ , I believe.’

               Dick nodded.  ‘Thanks, Alfred.’

               Sure enough, he found Bruce in the library, hunched in a soft leather chair by the fire, buried under dozens of books and newspapers.  Dick glanced at a headline— _EIGHT YEAR OLD GIRL FOUND DEAD_ —and looked away with a shudder.  He never got used to it.  It stopped making him throw up, eventually, but still.

               ‘Any news?’

               Bruce lifted his head as Dick sat in the chair beside him, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  ‘I’ve spoken with the coroner again.  He thinks the children are being injected with some form of poison.  _What_ poison is anyone’s guess.’  He sighed. ‘Any luck your end?’

               ‘With Wilson?’  Dick snorted.  ‘Well, the rumours were right.  His entire workforce are barely old enough to tie their shoes.’  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  ‘I talked to some of them.  They’ve heard of this child killer, but they seem to think the factory is safe.  None of them have been caught.’

               Raising his eyebrows, Bruce closed the book on his knee.  ‘Interesting.  Wilson’s factory’s in the middle of the killer’s hunting ground.’

               ‘Suspicious, right?’  Dick straightened.  ‘It seems to me that _someone’s_ trying not to draw attention to himself.  And obviously, it’d be bad business if your workforce started dying off …’

               ‘Hm.’

               Dick narrowed his eyes.  ‘Hm?  That’s all I get?  I’ve handed you the killer on a silver platter, Bruce.’

               ‘So you say.’  Bruce lifted his head as the library door opened again, glancing over his shoulder.  But it was only Jason, walking across the room with long-legged strides.  ‘I think you’re biased.’

               Dick scoffed.  ‘Oh, come _on._ ’

               ‘What’s the idiot done now?’  Jason leaned on the back of Dick’s chair so it tilted for a moment, before swaying back down on all four legs.

               ‘Who’s the idiot in this situation?’  Dick shoved Jason’s elbow.  Jason cackled.

               ‘Dick believes that Slade Wilson in the child killer,’ Bruce said.

               Jason heaved a sigh.  ‘Of course he does.’

               Folding his arms, Dick glared up at him.  ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

               The stare Jason gave him was deadpan, unamused; as though Dick was being deliberately dense.  ‘Every time there’s a crime anywhere in Gotham, you blame Slade Wilson.  He can’t be guilty of every church arson and disembowelled whore in the city.’

               ‘Language,’ Bruce muttered, but Jason ignored him.

               ‘That is patently untrue,’ Dick said.  ‘I do not blame Slade Wilson for everything.’

               Rolling his eyes, Jason leaned back, cupped his mouth with one hand and bellowed.  ‘TIM!’

               There were faint footsteps, and then Tim poked his head through the door.  ‘Yes?’

               Turning, Jason leaned back against Dick’s chair, jabbing a thumb at Dick over his shoulder.  ‘The world’s second greatest detective here thinks he knows who the child killer is.  Want to take a guess who’s his first suspect?’

               ‘Oh, Slade Wilson.’  Tim shrugged.  ‘It’s always Slade Wilson.’

               ‘Judas,’ Dick seethed.

               Tim only shrugged again.  ‘Sorry, Dick.  But you’ve got to admit, he riles you up.  Last time Bruce invited him to a party, I thought you were going to throw him out the window.’

               ‘I don’t know.’  Jason sprawled across the back of Dick’s chair, arms dangling by Dick’s shoulders.  ‘I remember that party.  You had your hands on Wilson’s lapels—shoved him right up against that wall—your noses practically touching.  If Bruce hadn’t pulled you apart, I thought you were gonna kiss him.’

               Dick spluttered.

               Groaning, Bruce put his head in his hand.  ‘Good god, Jason.’

               ‘Anger’s a hell of an aphrodisiac,’ Jason said.  ‘Right, Dick?’

               Dick snapped a fist up, aiming for the muscle in Jason’s dangling arm that would send shooting pains up to his shoulder and numb his hand.  Jason leaped back, cackling.

               ‘Don’t you boys have somewhere else to be?’ Bruce said.  ‘Somewhere that doesn’t involve distracting me when I’m working?’

               Jason snorted.  ‘Sure.  We know when we’re not wanted.’

               Turning in his seat, Dick glared as Jason headed out the library door, Tim in tow.  ‘Slade Wilson _is_ up to something.’

               He got derisive laughter in return, and slumped back in his chair.

               ‘You have something else to say,’ Bruce said.  Not so much a question as an observation.

               Dick sighed.  ‘I’ve been thinking about the last time this killer was active.’

               Bruce raised his eyebrows.  ‘That was fifteen years ago.  Do you even remember it?’

               Frowning, Dick bit the inside of his cheek.  ‘Well … yes.’

               He’d always been embarrassed to bring it up, really.  If Bruce remembered, he hadn’t mentioned it.  And if Bruce didn’t remember … well, Bruce saved lots of people, every night.  He couldn’t possibly remember every single one of them.  Much less another _street rat_.  Dick wrinkled his nose.

               Realising Bruce was staring, Dick let out a slow breath.  ‘He got me.’

               Bruce sat up—a sharp, jerky movement.  ‘What do you mean?’

               ‘I don’t remember much.’  Dick shrugged.  ‘Someone grabbed me.  I think they hit my head.  Then I was in a room with half a dozen of other children.’  He hesitated.  ‘You saved us.’

               Mostly he just remembered the panic; the racing heart; the pain thudding in his skull.  There was a voice, too.  A scratchy voice.  Telling him and the other children to be quiet when they complained, or when he moaned in pain.

               And he had an impression—a _distinct_ impression—of seeing just one eye.

               What he absolutely didn’t forget was the shadow that saved him.

               He hadn’t put two-and-two together initially.  That madness of those few hours when he was kidnapped, and meeting Bruce Wayne years later, always felt disconnected.  Hell, his entire childhood on the streets sometimes felt like a distant dream, when he woke up to—Dick glanced up at the towering bookshelves—well, _this_ , every day.

               By the time Dick realised, it felt stupid to bring it up.  _By the way Bruce, did you know you saved me from a kidnapper when I was a child?_   Dick always assumed the ‘shadow’ had killed his kidnapper that night.  It was over, so what did it matter?

               Except …

               _Thirty dead children._

               ‘It’s all right,’ he said, at Bruce’s furrowed brow.  ‘I don’t expect you to remember me.  It was a long time ago—before we properly met.’

               Bruce was silent for long enough to make Dick’s stomach squirm.  Finally, he said, ‘You think Wilson was the one who kidnapped you back then?’

               ‘I think so.  And I think it’s him now.’

               ‘You _are_ biased.’

               Dick spread his arms; half-shrug, half-admission.  He didn’t like Slade.  He didn’t like his self-satisfied smirks, or his cold grey stare, or the children he had working in his factory.  He couldn’t deny it.

               ‘Find evidence.’  Bruce drew a deep breath, leaning back into his chair.  ‘Prove to me Slade is up to something, and I’ll help you investigate further.  But I want a real lead first.’  He smiled softly.  ‘If I went after every person in this city you boys don’t like, I’d never get a moment’s rest.’

               Dick returned his smile.  Evidence?  Not a problem.  He find something.  Standing, he clapped Bruce’s shoulder and headed for the door.

               ‘Dick?’ Bruce called, hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to.

               Dick hesitated.  ‘Mm?’

               ‘Last time this killer was active was four months before I first hit the streets as Batman.’  Bruce leaned around his armchair, brow lowered.  ‘Whoever saved you that night ... it wasn’t me.’

               For a long time, Dick could only stare, head whirling.  Then he nodded numbly, and slipped out of the library.

 

* * *

 

The factory didn’t grow quiet until long after sunset.

               Dick curled on the opposite rooftop, breath clouding in front of him, gloved hands numbing in the cold.  He listened to the hammering and sawing for well over an hour, then watched the factory lights flicker out in the windows.  The doors opened, and Dick tensed, waiting for the children to flow outside.

               Instead— _Slade_.

               Sweeping to his feet, Dick reached for his grappling hook.  So Slade was leaving the factory first?  Perfect.  That meant he wouldn’t have to wait to follow him home.

               But Slade only stepped out, looked up and down the street, and then drew the doors closed with a heavy, ringing thud.  Chains rattled, loud enough for Dick to hear all the way up on the roof.

               Dick’s throat closed.  _Shit._   Slade was locking the children in.

               Did he know Dick was onto him?  Had he decided to go out in a blaze of glory—to attack all his child labourers at once?  Head spinning, Dick aimed his grappling hook and shot across to the factory rooftop, wind roaring in his ears.

               Stuffing the grappling hook on his belt, he crept across the roof, padded boots silent on the stonework.  A pyramid of glass panels rose up at the centre of the roof, large and broad enough to let light in during the day.  Dick circled it, but none of the windows were open.  None of them _could_ open—couldn’t even be reached from inside the factory, they were so high up.

               Dick chewed his lip, listening closely.  No screaming.  No voices at all.  Inside, it was dark, and empty, and quiet.

               Taking a deep breath, Dick drew his foot up, and snapped a kick downwards into the glass.

               It shattered under his heel, and Dick moved quickly, before someone could run to investigate.  Tucking his arms in, he dropped down through the broken window, then whipped out his grappling hook as he fell, and fired it at the walkway overlooking the factory floor.  The rope caught the railing, and he swung, stomach lurching, before the grappling hook hissed and pulled him up.  He clambered over the railing like a cat, dislodged his grappling hook, and slipped into the shadows.

               Just as a figure raced out Slade’s office, onto walkway.

               From the heavy footfall, rattling on the metal floor, Dick knew instantly it was Slade.  His guess was confirmed when a huge, hulking shadow turned the corner, head tilted up to take in the damaged window above.

               Slade hissed.  Biting his tongue, Dick pressed his back into the wall.  His uniform, like Bruce’s, was designed to melt into the darkness.

               Abruptly, Slade turned and marched back down the walkway and into his office. The door slammed behind him.

               Dick let out a breath.  Why hadn’t Slade stayed to investigate?  Turned the lights on; searched the factory floor?  Dick’s stomach twisted, uneasy.

               He sped across the walkway, knees bent, back hunched.  His heart pounded as he reached the office door, his mouth dry as paper.  He pressed his ear to the wood, listening.

               For a moment, he heard Slade walking up and down.  Then, a creak.  A thud.

               Silence.

               Frowning, Dick waited a moment longer.  That … that sounded just like a door opening and closing.  But he’d _been_ in Slade’s office, on his tour around the factory.  There was nothing in there but a desk and stacks of papers.  He hadn’t seen another door.  Unless—

_A secret room._

               Gritting his teeth, Dick reached for the door handle.  He twisted, moving achingly slowly, then pushed the door open.

               The office was as dark as the rest of the factory.  Dick slipped inside, glancing around warily.  A full evening in the dark had let his eyes adjust—he made out that same desk, and the papers, and the filing cabinet shoved against the wall.

               He sagged.  That was … painfully obvious.

               When he ran his fingers around the edge of the filing cabinet, he found the switch.  It was high for him.  For Slade, it was about shoulder-height.  A flick of the finger, and the filing cabinet swung back, revealing a long, dark portal.

               Dick took a long, shaky breath.  That was proof.  Innocent men didn’t have tunnels hidden behind their filing cabinets.  He could return to Bruce now; make his case a second time …

               And Slade could use that time to escape; to slip through the cracks again.

               Or to hurt the children.

               Slipping his batons out of his belt, Dick crept into the tunnel.

               His kept his breath soft and shallow, despite his pounding heart, and walked on slow, silent feet.  Stretching one arm out, Dick traced the wall with his knuckles, baton gripped tightly in his fist, guiding himself into the utter darkness.  He reached the tunnel’s end and his hand dropped into empty space.  He peered into the dark, spine prickling with the sensation of being watched.

               A loud creak made him turn.  Dick gasped as the filing cabinet swung shut, the boom echoing up through the tunnel.  Then light flared at his back, thin and gold.  He spun, blinked at the glare of a single match.

               His stomach dropped.

               Children.  _All_ the children from the factory, by the look of it.  Not crammed into cold, claustrophobic cage as he’d expected, but ... sitting on cots.  Rows and rows of cots, the sheets clean, the pillows fluffy.  The boy nearest Dick stuffed his lit match in a lantern, and the candle flared before he shook the match out.

               Staring up at Dick, the boy wrinkled his nose.  ‘You’ve screwed up, Mister.’

               Dick drew a breath, but before he could get out, _‘I’ve come to help you,’_ something slammed into the back of his head.  His skull exploded; stars crackled in his vision.

               He slumped.

 

* * *

 

Dick came to aching all over.  Spinning.  Everything was spinning.  The world lurched around him, and he couldn’t work out which way was up.  He felt like Slade had shoved him in a barrel and rolled him down a hill.  His heart stuck in his throat.

               No— _vomit_ stuck in his throat.

               Lunging forward, Dick choked and spat.  The vomit burned his throat before splattering on the floor between his feet.  Head bowed, he gasped, tremors rushing through his body.  His wrists burned behind him.  Tied … he was tied up.

               He blinked, barely able to focus even on his feet beneath him.  His vision doubled and blurred, swaying.  Dick groaned.

               ‘Hello, Nightwing.’

               _Slade._

               Gradually, Dick located all his limbs and, with enormous effort, hauled himself upright.  He sat in a hard wooden chair, arms bound behind the backrest.  His feet were free, though.  Slade’s mistake.  If he could stand, he could fight—

               Dick heaved up, dragging the chair behind him.  The room whirled.  His vision sparkled.  Black and gold.  Black and gold.

               He only realised he’d slumped back down when he felt heavy hands on his shoulders.

               ‘Stay down, idiot.  You’re concussed.’

               ‘How would you know?’  He tried to snap, but his voice slurred.

               Slade snorted.  ‘Because that’s the third time you’ve tried that.’  He lifted his hands away and stepped back.

               Drawing a deep breath, Dick rolled his head up and blinked around the room.  Slade’s office.  It was mostly dark; a single lantern on Slade’s desk sent shadows leaping and twisting up the walls.  He turned, instinctively seeking the filing cabinet.  It was open; just a crack.

               ‘I won’t let you hurt those kids,’ Dick croaked.

               Slade leaned back against his desk.  ‘I planned to say the same to you, Dick.’

               With his head pounding, it took a moment for the jolt of understanding to kick in.  His mask … he wasn’t wearing his mask.  Slade took it off him.

               Slade knew his identity.  Slade knew he was Nightwing.

               Dick twisted his hands behind him, breathing hard.  How long?  How long before Slade also realised Bruce was Batman?  That Jason and Tim—

               ‘Relax,’ Slade said.  ‘We’re on the same side.’

               ‘The same—’  Dick choked.  ‘You’re—you’re _murdering_ —’

               ‘I’m not the child killer,’ Slade said levelly.  He rolled his eye, lips twitching in a smirk.  ‘And it turns out, neither are you.’

               Dick blinked.  Every word felt like a drum pounding inside his skull.  ‘You—you thought I was—?’

               ‘You were _very_ interested in the children working in my factory,’ Slade pointed out.  ‘You watched the place all evening.  And then, when none of them came outside, you broke in after them.  Yes, I thought you were the child killer.’  He huffed.  ‘Until I recognised that ridiculous costume.’

               ‘My uniform,’ Dick seethed, ‘is not ridiculous.’

               Slade laughed.  ‘It doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination.’  His eye roamed down Dick’s body and back up.  ‘Do you wear it every night, or did you just put it on for me?’

               ‘Go fuck yourself, Slade.’

               ‘Yes, but I’ll think of you the whole time.’

               Dick groaned.  His head hurt far too much to put up with Slade’s teasing.  ‘You know I’m not the killer, so let me go.’

               ‘Let you stagger, punch-drunk, down an alley to be mugged?’  Slade scoffed.  ‘I’d rather not.’

               ‘So you’re kidnapping me?’

               ‘I’m _restraining_ you, because you are injured, and apparently suicidal.’

               ‘Injured because of you,’ Dick spat.

               ‘You shouldn’t have crept into my factory like a disturbed killer.’

               ‘You shouldn’t be keeping children locked up in your factory!’  Dick straightened, clenching his jaw despite the way it sent pain throbbing through his skull.  ‘What’re you doing with them anyway?  Slave labour?’

               Slade shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh.  ‘I’m protecting them, idiot.’

               It was the headache.  It was definitely the headache.  Because Dick’s brain stalled.  ‘You … what?’

               Lifting a hand, Slade gestured out the door.  ‘There is a crazed killer out there terrorising children.  Did you think it was a coincidence that I hire mostly children?  Here, I can protect them.  And—’ he folded his arms, crossing his feet at the ankles, ‘—I can lure the bastard in.’

               Dick stared up at him, mouth slack.  That was … that was actually pretty _clever_.  And _almost_ moral.  Of course, there was an ulterior motive, because this was Slade, but—protecting children?  Couldn’t say he’d expected that.

               Leaning back on his chair, Dick narrowed his eyes.  ‘Why?  Why do you care?’

               ‘I almost caught him before,’ Slade said.  ‘Fifteen years ago, after the bastard murdered my daughter.’

               He might as well have hit Dick over the head a second time.

               ‘ _Daughter_?’

               ‘Rose.’  Slade hesitated.  ‘She was twelve.’

               Dick shook his head.  Daughter.  Slade had a _daughter_.

               And then—a second thought—like a wallop to the gut.

               ‘Oh my god,’ Dick whispered.  ‘It was you.’

               Slade frowned.  ‘What exactly was me?’

               ‘I was kidnapped by the killer,’ Dick said.  ‘Fifteen years ago.  Someone came and set me free—me and the other children—’

 _One eye._   He remembered seeing one eye.  Not the killer’s eye.  His saviour’s.  He’d forgotten …

               Slade raised his eyebrows.  ‘That was you?’  He let out a soft huff of laughter.  ‘You’re welcome.’  Reaching into his jacket, Slade drew out a knife.  ‘If I cut you loose, do you promise not to kick me in the head and run?’

               Dick snorted.  ‘No.’

               Smirking, Slade stepped around him, bent and slashed the ties around Dick’s wrist.  ‘That’s my boy.’

               Dick tried to get up again, but barely rose an inch out of the chair before his head spun, and he sat back down.  ‘Ugh.’  He buried his head in his hands.  ‘I hate you so much.’

               ‘I know.’  Slade slipped the knife back in his jacket.  ‘Want to help me catch the killer?’

               Dick managed a grumble, and wasn’t a hundred percent certain whether it was meant to be an affirmative.

 

* * *

 

‘I just want you to know,’ Tim said, hunkering down in his jacket, ‘you are a terrible person for putting me through this.’

               ‘You’re the smallest,’ Dick said.  ‘And you’ve still got that starving orphan look about you, no matter how much Alfred feeds you.’

               Tim rolled his eyes, barely visible over the brim of his tattered hat.  ‘Gee, thanks.’

               He shivered as a bitter wind swept down the street.  The rags they’d scraped together from pawn shops were pretty thin; Dick doubted they were keeping out the sting of the air at all.  Tim, good sport despite his grumbling, had even scrubbed a patch of dirt over his nose for authenticity.

               Dick’s own coat covered his Nightwing uniform. 

               Tim glanced over his shoulder, and Dick saw the flash of a grin before he tucked his face back under his high collar.  ‘I’m glad you two have worked things out.’

               Resisting the urge to look back as well—at where he knew Slade was following at a casual distance—Dick gritted his teeth.  ‘Shut your mouth, Tim.’

               Tim sniggered.  ‘Will I be invited to the wedding, or are you planning a private affair?’

               ‘Well,’ Dick said loudly, ‘that’s far enough.  You can walk home on your own, ungrateful brat.’

               He dropped back, ignoring Tim’s continued snickering.  After a moment’s slow walking, he came shoulder-to-shoulder with Slade.

               ‘He’s too old,’ Slade said, not looking round.

               ‘He’s not.  The killer took a sixteen-year-old last week.  Tim doesn’t look much older.’  Dick stuffed his hands in his deep coat pockets, curling his fingers around the batons hidden there.  ‘Give it a few hours.  If he doesn’t bite, he doesn’t bite.  This is better than endangering actual children.’

               Who were, at present, being babysat by an all-too-delighted Alfred and Jason.  It turned out Jason was unnervingly good at telling bedtime stories, provided the children didn’t balk at the gratuitous blood and violence.  When Dick left, Jason was describing how a gibbet worked in unnerving detail to an enraptured audience, while Alfred prepared hot chocolate with an expression of polite disapproval.

               A dark flash on a nearby rooftop was his only indication that Bruce was still nearby.  Dick glanced up, nodded, and stepped away from Slade.

               ‘I have to go.  Batman wants me on the roof.’

               ‘Tell him I want you more.’

               Dick rolled his eyes.  ‘Shut the hell up, Slade.’  But he didn’t have the energy to put a great deal of force behind it.  This was the killer’s last attack.  Dick could _feel_ it.

               He slipped away, found a shadowy corner, and grappled up on the roof.  A moment’s pause to slip off his coat and slip on his mask, and he raced across the rooftops, tracking Tim from above.  Bruce stepped out the shadows, appearing suddenly at Dick’s shoulder.

               ‘Seen anything?’ Dick asked.

               ‘Not yet.’  Bruce nodded up ahead.  ‘But that alley looks promising.’

               Dick nodded.  When he glanced up again, Bruce was gone.  Sighing softly, Dick turned and barrelled ahead, following Tim down the street, round the corner, and into the dark alley.

               Tim scuffed his feet as he walked, huffing loudly, drawing big, shivery breaths.  Doing everything to draw attention to himself.  The alley wound around and around, twisting between different buildings, and Tim weaved through them, dedicated to ignoring any possible way out onto a brighter-lit street.  After a while, he stopped at a corner, turned a few times, and groaned.

               If Dick hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Tim was inescapably lost.

               It was probably all for naught.  The killer might well be hunting in another part of the city.  It could take all night—several nights—to finally cross his path.

               So Dick hissed in surprise when a shadow detached itself from the wall near Tim, slinking softly towards him.  An instant later, Batman appeared as a dark shape on the rooftop opposite, peering down into the alley.

               Tim looked up sharply, hearing Dick’s reaction even if the killer didn’t.

               Then he spun, foot snapping up in a roundhouse kick that could’ve knocked a man flat.

               If only he hadn’t missed.

               The killer swept back, then lunged in, and Dick saw a glint of metal—knife—and dropped from the rooftop with a cry of warning.  Tim saw the weapon and darted out of reach.  In the same instant, Dick landed in the alley, and the killer spun on his heel, racing away fast as a greyhound.  Snarling, Dick shot off in pursuit, feet pounding, heart racing.

_You are not getting away._

               He heard Tim’s footsteps behind him; not following but charging in another direction, probably aiming to cut the killer off.  Dick wished he could see the killer’s face, but every time he stepped though a slash of moonlight, all Dick could make out was some kind of rough burlap hood, pulled low over his face.  The knife glinted, razor-thin.

               Not a knife, Dick realised with a lurch.  A syringe.

_Poison._

               Up ahead, the killer reached a crossroads, and barrelled left.  A moment later, he staggered back.  Tim marched out of the left turning, knees bent, fists up and ready.

               Dick skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.  ‘Got you.’

               The killer turned to face him with a snarl, and now Dick saw why he hadn’t been able to make out his face.  The killer wore a mask of burlap, two jagged black holes ripped out over the eyes.  His clothes were patchy and filthy, hanging off a skinny frame far too small for them.

 _Scarecrow,_ Dick thought distantly.  _Like a scarecrow brought to life._

               Turning again, the Scarecrow took a few steps to the right, but came up short as the tall, black shadow of Batman loomed out of the darkness.  The Scarecrow turned to look behind him.  His last option.  His last escape.

               And found Slade blocking his way.

               ‘Hello there,’ Slade said pleasantly, hefting an iron bar.  ‘This was meant for you.’

               He swung the bar down, and cracked it over the Scarecrow’s head.

 

* * *

 

The factory floor was busy as ever.  Some of the children waved cheerily at Dick as he passed; he nodded in return.  There were fewer of them now.  More adults.

               He jogged up the stairs to the walkway, then headed to Slade’s office and rapped his knuckles on the door.  Inside, he heard a chair scraping, then footsteps, before the door opened.

               ‘Dick.’  Slade grinned broadly, like a wolf meeting a lamb.  ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’

               ‘Bruce sent me.’  Digging in his pocket, Dick drew out the envelope and thrust it at Slade.  ‘He wants you to invite you to his next charitable gala.’

               Slade snorted.  ‘It’s good to see you, too.  Come in, Dick.  I have coffee.’

               Dick hesitated a moment, then stepped inside, and let Slade close the door behind them.  When Slade walked away without the envelope, Dick set it down on his desk instead.  ‘You’ve lost a lot of child labour.’

               ‘Mm.’  Slade dug a set of mugs from a drawer in his desk, then poured coffee from the kettle in the corner.  ‘That will happen when you spend half your time finding them places in local schools.’

               Dick raised his eyebrows.  After a moment, Slade turned with the coffee, and handed Dick a mug.  Dick took it.  Sipped.  Grimaced.

               Slade laughed.  ‘It’s better Irish.’  He tugged a bottle from his pocket, tipped a tot into his mug, then offered it to Dick.  Another moment’s hesitation, and then Dick held his mug out, allowing Slade to tip a—much larger—tot into his own coffee.

               He sipped again, and it burned pleasantly as he swallowed.  Slade was right.  It was better.

               Another sip.  He shuffled from foot-to-foot.  Half-wished he hadn’t accepted the coffee.  Hadn’t come in at all.  This was just too awkward.  Too _stupid_.

               ‘Something else you want to say, Dick?’  Slade raised an eyebrow.  ‘Or you practising your tap dancing?’

               Dick rolled his eyes, and set his mug down on the desk.  ‘I wanted to say thank you.  Since you helped catch the Scarecrow.’

               ‘Scarecrow?’

               Dick shrugged.  ‘You’ve got to admit, it fits.’  He swallowed.  ‘Also, thank you for keeping quiet about …’  He tilted his head.

               Slade chuckled.  ‘Your bat problem is safe with me.’

               Letting out a breath, Dick straightened.  That wasn’t so bad.  That was all he had to say, and it was done.  He reached for his mug, took another swig—winced at the serious burn this time—then set it down.  ‘Well, maybe I’ll see you at the gala.’

               ‘Maybe.’  Slade stepped closer, setting his own mug down beside Dick’s.  He reached up, and—Dick stilled—traced Dick’s jaw with gentle, calloused fingers.  ‘Wear the Nightwing suit.  I like it.’

               ‘I thought it was ridiculous.’  He wasn’t pulling away.  Why wasn’t he pulling away?

               ‘It _is_ ridiculous.’  Slade’s other hand curled around Dick’s waist.  ‘But it gives me an enviable view of your ass.’

               Dick snorted.  His stomach tingled and buzzed.  ‘You are such a prick.’

               He straightened, slipped his hands up Slade’s neck, grabbed his lapels, and dragged him down into a kiss.

               _God damn it,_ he thought.  _Jason was right._

               Slade slid his hand down and grabbed Dick’s ass, pulling him in close.  Dick broke the kiss with a gasp, shivers running up his spine at the delicious friction.

               Slade leaned in, and as he whispered his lips brushed Dick’s ear.  ‘See you at the gala.’

               Then he drew back; slapped Dick’s ass; and reached for his coffee mug.

               Dick stood frozen for a moment, face flushed, blood thumping in his ears.  He shook himself.  ‘ _Bastard_ ,’ he seethed.  ‘You teasing, malicious _bastard_.’

               Grinning, Slade raised his mug, then tipped it back and downed it.

               Dick reached for his own coffee, and didn’t bother to conceal his smile.


End file.
